


Keeps Yourself Still

by sariagray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:04:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariagray/pseuds/sariagray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is distracted, and quiet, and it’s all a bit terrifying, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keeps Yourself Still

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by analineblue. Title and quote come from Shakespeare's Sonnet XVI.

_To give away yourself keeps yourself still,  
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill._

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is an intense man.

John had determined this almost instantly upon meeting him, and it was fine. Good, even. Refreshing. Until he'd realized the true, complete extent of it all.

Sherlock Holmes is more than merely intense; he possesses the chaos of a hurricane, the destructive focus of a tornado, the overwhelming cascade of a tsunami, and the foundation-rocking of an earthquake. And that's just before breakfast, when he’s only just trying to find his dressing gown.

On a case, at the center of a crime scene, he is Shiva: destroying, creating, destroying. (That John once whiled away an afternoon trying to determine which god Sherlock most resembled will never be mentioned, nor shall the fact that he remains completely undecided on the subject.) While working a case, Sherlock _burns_ , incandescent, until the puzzle is solved and he is nothing but ash that John must sweep up into a dustpan.

At the present moment, Sherlock is quiet. It's a rare occurrence. Oh, Sherlock has been _silent_ before, but even then a part of him will usually whir its white noise into the hushed corners of the flat. And he is a master of expression. He may go days without speaking, but he can't go two minutes without communicating; John is convinced that Sherlock makes himself purposefully readable for John's benefit. 

This late Tuesday afternoon, however, Sherlock is completely still, more stationary than a corpse. A corpse would succumb to the gravity of the planet, slumped over and weighty, but Sherlock seems to shun it as his body dangles over the edge of the sofa and his head rests above the cushion, on an invisible pillow.

John's tea has long gone cold and bitter, the teabag hanging limp and defeated in the cup. He's been ignoring it in favor of pretending to read the paper while watching and contemplating Sherlock's precarious, unmoving, quiet position.

It's another ten minutes or so before Sherlock announces, eyes closed, "39.75%."

It is, perhaps, a testament to John's nature and his increased comfort that he simply nods and folds the paper away.

"Of what?"

Sherlock says, "I rounded, of course."

He stands in one fluid, impossible motion and walks to the bookcase, his back held stiffly. He runs his fingers quickly over the spines until they alight upon the desired volume, which Sherlock jerks from the case. He flops back onto the sofa, right leg hanging from the side, and begins to read from the middle.

"What's that then?" John asks.

"Jane Eyre."

Sherlock's voice is heavy with disdain, which is the only normal thing about any of this. John clings to it helplessly.

"I'm sorry, I - what? Jane Eyre?"

"I'm skipping over most of it, if you must know. I just need to find a paragraph or two that will prove particularly relevant."

John frowns. "Is this for a case?"

"Not officially."

Well, fine, John thinks. A non-official case is usual, normal, reassuring.

"And the 39%?"

"39.75," Sherlock corrects. "Actually 39.8233%."

"You rounded down?"

"It was more flattering that way."

John's frown deepens. "Flattering?"

Sherlock rests the open book on his chest, and closes his eyes and sighs. 

"To myself, John. More flattering to myself."

There is a long, contemplative lull - at least, John finds it contemplative, as his brain is currently flipping through Sherlock's various exhibitions of vanity, trying to find a match to 39.8233%. As he’d expected, he comes up with absolutely nothing. Finally, Sherlock stretches out his left arm, hand slightly cupped and palm up.

"Cigarettes."

"No," John says, not unkindly.

They're where Sherlock last left them - in the refrigerator, next to a measuring cup that may contain setting jelly or else some viscous, hazardous chemical. He'll hide them later, before Sherlock remembers they're there. It will be entirely useless, as Sherlock will be able to determine – almost instantly – where John would hide such a thing, but at least it’s a bit like trying.

Sherlock makes a low noise, almost a growl, in his throat and picks the book up again. John watches his eyes scan the pages for a few seconds before the volume is flung across the room. It hits the wall with a muffled thump and then falls to the ground in a mess of bent pages.

John decides that now is a good time to refresh his tea.

The electric kettle is still on, still hot, so it doesn't take long to procure a fresh cup that warms his hands properly. He intends to drink this one in full once it's cool enough for his mouth and it’s almost completely shameful how much he looks forward to that moment. 

"I can't think! How can I think! 39.75%, John! Do you know what this means?"

John opens his mouth.

"No, no," Sherlock waves him off. "Of course you don't. I can allot 5, maybe 10% at most. Anything more is a serious detriment."

"Percent of what?" John asks again, stepping back into the sitting room.

"Brain work, John. Thoughts."

"So you're distracted. From a case? An experiment?"

"From everything."

John sighs and takes an absentminded, thoughtless sip. It burns his tongue, his gums, all the way down his esophagus until it settles with startling warmth in his empty stomach. Sherlock has now covered his eyes with a loose arm, like some breathless Victorian maiden dealt the shock of a lifetime. This, too, is normal. John settles back into his chair.

“Can we remove it?”

Sherlock says, “It’s not a tumor, John.”

Funny how he sounds a bit like he wishes it _were_ a tumor. 

It’s warm out, and the windows are open, letting fresh breezes in to replace the stale, formaldehyde-tinged air they’d been breathing all winter long. The room smells of dust and bread yeast and something similar to paint thinner, which is to say that there’s no marked improvement. The unseasonal heat is still winter-dry, and everything feels old and dirty with it.

For a moment, John wonders if that isn’t the cause of Sherlock’s distraction – perhaps he’s dehydrated and his skin is beginning to stretch and crack and itch. Itching would, to any average human, be a distraction. But Sherlock isn’t average, and his species is occasionally debatable, so he’d probably bathe himself in hydrochloric acid to rid himself of the irritation of uncomfortable skin.

John clears his throat. “Is there any –”

“Kiss me,” Sherlock says, in the same tone he’d just used to demand cigarettes.

“You can’t – what? Why?”

“Because I fear it will prove to be the only solution.”

John takes a moment to puzzle this out, or maybe just to collect his breath and be sure he’d heard what he thought he’d heard over the heavy, wet sound of blood rushing in his ears. Sherlock still hasn’t moved, his arm is still blotting out all of the watery grey light of the flat, so John really, really can’t be sure.

Sherlock repeats, “Kiss me,” and there may or may not be a tinge of desperation in his voice.

It’s not like a bad bout of boredom, not at all. Sherlock’s body is redolent, almost soft, and his limbs are posed without the tense lines of anxiety. His breathing is measured; John watches the steady – anticipatory – rise and fall of his chest that mimics sleep. He’s just waiting there, waiting for John to get up, as though John were his butler and therefore required to service every whim for a mobile or a cup of tea or a packet of cigarettes.

And to kiss him. Apparently.

John weighs his options carefully. On the one hand, if he doesn’t kiss him, Sherlock might spend the rest of the evening complaining about this supposed brain-gnawing distraction. On the other hand, if he does, he’s just encouraging Sherlock’s entitled behavior, and that is, simply put, not on.

That he’s more concerned about enabling than he is about _actually kissing_ Sherlock is what finally decides him.

Crossing the small terrain of adequate flooring to the sofa is a bit like navigating the desert. It may even be slightly more terrifying. The adrenaline, however, is pretty much the same and that propels him forward even as his mind screams at him to turn around and flee.

When he gets far enough to lean over Sherlock, as hesitant as if there were a spell to be broken, Sherlock’s hand launches forward and pulls John down by a fistful of shirt. John thinks, at first, that it must have been a test, and he’s either passed or failed, no matter. But then Sherlock’s lips are on his, surprisingly warm and uncoordinated and full, and he’s not sure who’s testing whom anymore.

It’s a strange mix; passionate, unpracticed and yet still skilled, the way Sherlock’s mouth moves against his own, hot and wet and demanding, but still uncertain. John can’t even think with it, with the bit of Sherlock’s hair rubbing against his eyebrow, or the way their noses keep getting in the way. It’s terrifying and wrong and so bloody perfect that John doesn’t ever want it to stop.

He moans – softly, hopelessly – when Sherlock pulls back a little; for air, because he’s bored, because the problem has been solved, John isn’t sure. But then he looks, and Sherlock’s eyes are wide and his mouth is red and swollen, and all John wants to do is kiss him again.

Sherlock stretches up and kisses the side of John’s mouth, chaste and almost more welcoming. It’s a gesture that says, quite loudly, ‘don’t leave.’

“100%, well done,” he says (and John’s not ashamed to admit that he’s a bit proud at how breathless Sherlock sounds).

He blinks a moment, his brain a thick fog that it’s hard to see through.

“Although,” Sherlock continues, “does it still count as a distraction at 100%?”


End file.
